


Better Than on a Dream Intrude (the Strategist Remix)

by BrighteyedJill



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Androgyny, Domestic Violence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-22
Updated: 2012-04-22
Packaged: 2017-11-04 02:29:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/388691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrighteyedJill/pseuds/BrighteyedJill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock had done everything right, but he'd still failed. He retreats to a safe place to put things right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better Than on a Dream Intrude (the Strategist Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [harriet_spy (SarahT)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SarahT/gifts).
  * Inspired by [the suburbs of a secret](https://archiveofourown.org/works/183574) by [Sarah T (SarahT)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SarahT/pseuds/Sarah%20T). 



The lockpick shook in Sherlock’s hands. Alcohol slowed his reactions. Reduced his dexterity. He should make a note. His hands had moved steadily enough when he’d applied eyeliner earlier in the evening; the lines had been perfectly drawn then, though they were certainly smudged now. 

The lock turned—at last, at last. Sherlock let himself into Mycroft’s front hall. The door swung closed behind him. He turned and threw the deadbolt. No one would come after him. No one had followed him. Sherlock swallowed down iron-tinged panic. He pressed his palm flat against the solid door. Of course, there would be some sort of alarm system. Undoubtedly the help had standing orders not to interfere with their employer’s wayward brother. He wouldn’t be disturbed.

Sherlock counted ten paces forward, turned left, then counted off five more. His feet caught and fumbled against the floor. He’d practiced in his stiletto-heeled boots until he’d achieved an effortlessly confident walk, but that skill seemed to have departed with his better judgment. 

One more turn left. Kitchen: the sound of the refrigerator’s hum confirmed it. He flipped on the light switch. Mycroft had ordered his kitchen outfitted in glaringly modern style. The surfaces fairly sparkled. Too bright against the throb of Sherlock’s headache.

Sherlock closed the eye that wasn’t already swollen shut. His fingers traced the edge of the counter until marble gave way to metal: the sink. He leaned over the basin and spat. He nudged his tongue against his left incisor, which wobbled, but held. He spat again. His vivid red lipstick, so carefully selected, would no doubt clash with the blood. 

“Sherlock? What in-- ”

“Mycroft!” He whipped around at the sound of that familiar baritone. His head protested the quick movement. A hand on the counter saved him from a stumble. Drinking had seemed so clever, earlier; each fresh drink Victor bought him served as a reassurance of his interest. “You’re meant to be at your club.”

“It’s Wednesday. What _happened_?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Sherlock watched Mycroft’s incisive gaze sweep over him. Mycroft would easily catalogue every detail of his disarray. Sherlock refused to flinch away. The image he’d worked so carefully to create had been ruined. He smoothed a hand down over the slick fabric that barely covered his arse. When he’d chosen that dress, examining himself in the array of full-length mirrors in the back of the shop, he’d admired the way it clearly displayed the masculine planes of his torso, and he’d felt certain Victor would approve. 

Mycroft edged closer. Sherlock let him approach. Mycroft’s fingers circled Sherlock’s wrist, right above the thin silver bracelet. Sherlock had chosen that singular piece of jewelry to suggest a particular image: Sherlock claimed, held, captured. He knew Victor had liked the connotations; Sherlock had seen the evidence of his success in Victor’s quickened breathing, the way his body angled forward, and the pounding of his pulse when Sherlock had held his wrist. 

Mycroft’s grip tightened. “If you won’t tell me, I’ll have to send a team to investigate the--”

“No!” His too-loud protest tore at his throat. There’d been shouting earlier, and smoking as well, leaving him hoarse. “Mycroft, for God’s sake… Please.”

Mycroft didn’t release his wrist. 

Sherlock turned aside. He swallowed the taste of blood. “I was out with a friend.”

Mycroft remained silent. His thumb moved against Sherlock’s palm. He could be remarkably patient.

“He didn’t like me. Not like I thought he did.”

“I see.” Mycroft’s fingers traced up Sherlock’s bare arm. He rested his hand against the back of Sherlock’s neck. “He’s a fool.”

Sherlock’s breath stopped in his throat. The stubborn pride that had been holding him up faltered. He pitched forward. Mycroft caught him. Held him. Spoke into his ear. “Come along. We’ll get you changed.”

“No.” Sherlock shook his head against Mycroft’s shoulder. He looked down at the unforgiving black and white pattern of the tile. He knew he’d been right. He’d read Victor’s signals correctly. He’d chosen well: the black silk of his stockings against pale, smooth legs. He’d been beautiful. He’d done everything perfectly. It hadn’t been enough. “A quick kip. Just to sleep it off.”

“Of course. I have you.”

Mycroft’s bedroom embodied peace and order. Sherlock felt sorry to wreck that as he tumbled onto his back against pristine sheets. The ceiling had been painted a tranquil blue. It failed to quell the shame and pain that throbbed within him. Sherlock felt hands tugging at his boots. He thrashed feebly. 

“You won’t be comfortable sleeping in mud.” Mycroft’s voice came from below: the floor. 

Sherlock grunted his consent. Mycroft unzipped one boot. He lifted out Sherlock’s foot. The man who’d custom fitted the boots had stroked a hand down Sherlock’s leather-clad calf at the final fitting. He’d said, “You’re going to make some lucky boy so happy.” He’d sounded so certain that Sherlock had believed him; Sherlock himself was, as tonight’s efforts showed, still a novice in the art of making others happy. 

Once the boots were off, Mycroft lifted Sherlock’s legs onto the bed. Sherlock let the room spin. His mind latched onto the words Mycroft had whispered as he’d half-carried Sherlock to bed: _“Pretty boy, my pretty, pretty boy_.” The words quelled the ache in his chest. 

Mycroft brought a sheet to the bed to drape over Sherlock’s still form. Sherlock hardly dared breathe. He could still feel Mycroft’s fingers braceleting his wrist, Mycroft’s hand holding his foot. Sherlock had hoped. His head was turned away, his eyes closed, but he could sense Mycroft standing at the edge of the bed. He hoped, still. 

Mycroft leaned down and pressed a kiss to the mess of curls at the crown of Sherlock’s head. “Hush,” he whispered. “I’ll take care of everything. Sleep.” Footsteps retreated from the room.

Alone, still aching, Sherlock slept.


End file.
